Where am I?

The stage between leaving a domestic violence situation and setting up a new life in an entirely new town without the one you married for life.

It is not easy for me to define the journey I have taken, because I don’t really know where I am, what life looks like from here. I am a mystery even to myself. What does a twenty year old do with herself when she has already been separated? She is no longer the drawcard for single men, doesn’t want a committed relationship, has never mixed with the party crowed, and she is far too knowing to enjoy it. It is a lonely existence, to be the only one who fits your shoes. To be the only one with the mould of a wife but without a husband.

It is almost as if to deny her marriage and become a woman of the world she would be denying who she is, or has been until now. And those habits don’t change overnight. She can dress in less and red lipstick and take to the city like a seasoned pro, but the fact remains that when she walks into a club she has no idea what to expect. And should a willing man, since that is really what she is after, offer to take her home, her reflex answer is still “no”. Satisfaction is impossible.

But maybe this was always my lot. At fourteen I was not encouraged to be interested in fashion. At sixteen it would have been obscure if I had a boyfriend. At eighteen I would not be expected to drink. So when I tasted normalcy, after so long in a realm I had accepted, I would always be “late to the party” �" a misfit. All I can say is that it is a shame I am so much a misfit. It would be hard enough to have been a “good” or “Christian” girl, venturing into a world that was always there but that she had never become acquainted with. It is something of a hurdle again, however, to be a married woman entering that world for the first time.

And now what have I become? Complicated. Flawed. With adult problems and childlike solutions. I go out one morning on my disappointing, seemingly endless quest of getting my gold priced and, that same afternoon, I return home a mess wanting nothing but to call my mum. Both are pathetic. In short, I have become human.

Human without hunger. Purging is like fortune digging. Seeing vomit makes me so happy, so “sickly satisfied” I could roll in it. Because bursting eyeballs, gagging throat and dribble equals beauty to me. I would rather be told I look “atrociously thin” than “vibrant”. I don’t want to be a normal or healthy weight. Constant striving. Constant less. I love this feat. I live for this. I die for this. I have learnt and proven this: Humanity is disgusting.

I ponder forever about unspeakable questions. If he suicides would he leave a note? I want him to because I want him to care. But he wouldn’t. Wouldn’t kill himself, I mean. People who kill themselves do so for the sake of others’. I want him to leave a note. To mention me. Something simple, like “Tell Susie I am so sorry for the way I treated her.” Just like I wanted him to plan a date. Just like I wanted him to stay away from other girls. Just like I wanted him to take his medication. Just like I wanted him to keep his appointments. Just like I wanted him to stay in hospital. Just like I wanted him to stop yelling. It is not that I would wish anyone dead. I just want to see an effort, like I always have. If only in his death. He has never has. He wouldn’t leave a note. He wouldn’t make the effort. As I said, people who kill themselves do so for the sake of others’. So, no worry: he would neither suicide. He wouldn’t make the effort.

What has the experience granted me? Stigma, sickness, post-traumatic stress and now this �" I think they call that voice in my head Mia now. Freedom takes many forms. Who knew? I feel like the Hulk: All strength; no dignity.

I suppose I really did fall for him. In more ways than one. I fell in love. And. I fell for his lies. Sometimes I miss his perfect, content, admiring smile. And then I realise I miss something that I never really had. That was not a time to miss, it is a time to regret. We sat in the park once, late at night, sometime between confessing our feelings and beginning a relationship. He told me, “All I want is to make you happy.” And we lay down side by side on the grass, both with an earpiece of his headphones in one ear, and listened to his music while watching the streetlights and, if we were lucky, the stars. Why can I not disregard these early memories, like I can the final ones, when the deceit was plan and clear? Why do I still have this one filed in my mind under “romance”. I wouldn’t know what romance was is if it starred me in the face. I don’t know the difference. Love, romance, deceit. All one and the same. All falling.

To be honest it all feels a little degrading. I spent about three years out on a ledge for him. And all the while I was exactly where he wanted me. In one way the abuse started after we got married. But how, then, did we ever get married? He was scheming from the start. And I was way too committed way too soon. In a way I think I married him because I was already dying for him. I figured, at the time, that I might as well reap the benefits of marriage, too. Apparently not.

I remember five months into our eight-month marriage, my knowing auntie telling me in the kindest way that I had to grow up. And I did. I dealt with things no twenty year old I know has ever had to. But now, with it all behind me, I feel I am twelve or thirteen again. With the same insecurities I faced then. Will anyone find me attractive? Will anyone want me? Will I be alone forever?

I am still not entirely sure what happened �" what brought me to the point of no return. It was not as simple as “He abused me so I left.” That was not enough of a reason for me. It was more likely a matter of stopping loving him, or perhaps simply running out of chances to give. I love the line in the song Wild at Heart that says, “When was the moment it all fell apart, With no sign of warning, no raised alarm? I still wear my bruises, I show my scars, The life and the death of the wild at heart”. The point is, I had to leave, but I needed to find justification beyond that �" and I did. But in the blur of the rush, the emotion and the layers, I forgot what that reason was. The main thing is that at some point in the months of chaos and conflict, I found it, and I have kept it, somewhere under the layers in my heart, confirmed by the peace I experience every day from the knowing that I made the right decision.

I do not feel that I have lost, as long as I can fill the void with an obsession that had taken second priority during my months of marriage: My body. I can endure any situation life throws at me as long as I can control my weight. I can live with the memories of violence as long as now, in the aftermath, I can become my abuser. Revenge is sweeter than food. I have the ability to make myself feel as beautiful and desirable as he did in the early days, while my head was still in the clouds. If my binges represent a lack of control in my circumstance, purging represents a power I am completely proud of. It is pure defiance. And starvation not loss, but tenacity. It is my personal affirmation that I am not without.

I do not know why many days I do not leave my bedroom. Is it a prison or a refuge? Either way, I could not venture out of it even if I wanted to. Because of the paranoia I am now faced with. So suppose it is both.

My life will soon have a new destination. I am convinced that in a short time, after I have faced and hopefully conquered a few of my demons, I will re-enter society with new titles. No longer “Mrs”. Life will take a new turn and a new shape and I look forward to it, whatever it will look like. I will find work, or study, and purpose again. This limbo and search for purpose is leading somewhere. I do not know where. I do not care where anymore. Just get me there already.

Author's Note

Thoughts welcome. Please be kind with constructive criticism! Thanks xx

Reviews

[Mr. Color Blind]

I don't know where you are, but at the least you're asking a lot of questions. Answered will come whether they want to or not. I enjoyed reading the piece and the honest thought process.

[Susie]

Your feedback always makes me want to write more xo